I turn 53 years old today; I have $25 dollars in the bank.
In many people’s perspectives, I am not doing this whole adult thing very well.
I have to disagree, sweetie.
Let me list the reasons:
I am healthy. Other than a slight touch of hypertension, which is a result of genetics and beyond my control, I’m doing really well physically.
I struggled with depression and anxiety my entire life. I have that shit under control now. Sure, the Black Dog howls every now and then but, fuck that mutt. I hold the leash, bitch.
My marriage is stable and solid. Probably more now than ever. We have grown up together and are partners. I have his back and he has mine. What more could one want?
My children love me but, more importantly, they like me. They enjoy just hanging out with me. I respect them as adults and they do the same with me. They’ve come to terms with having a weird mom and now actually relish in it. It’s a point of pride that their friends are jealous of our relationship.
My writing career is still chugging along. Sure, I don’t have an agent yet or on any big Book Lists but Past Nik would be amazed at all that we have out there. In the past 6 weeks, I have put out 4 titles. FOUR. And, most importantly, I am working on other stories. With even more ideas in the wings. My creative juices are flowing, baby, even if my estrogen levels are flatlining.
So, in spite of only having $25 in the bank, I’m rich.
There are many out there with fatter wallets that would envy such wealth.